“Drake! DRAKE!” Urgent footfalls clopped through the corridor. “DRAKE!”

“You called, Master Wilkinson?” asked Francis, stepping out from the library.

“You devil! I’ve been searching for you everywhere! Your only utility is to ask Death to pay me a visit!” When he was flustered, Wilkinson’s voice always rose to a scratchy soprano.

“Master Wilkinson, you asked me to tidy the libr—”

“Oh, no matter! Come with me at once!”

Francis followed Wilkinson to the front sitting room.

“This room…” He clutched his head. “This room… do something! Make this mess go away! Captain Hawkins’s guests shall be here any moment!” He stomped out.

Francis looked around and shrugged. He closed and straightened one open book and folded the tapestry, hanging it neatly over the intricately carved back of the bench.

He turned to go clean the library.

“Welcome, welcome, gentlemen! To the sitting room, this way.” Wilkinson swept back into the sitting room ahead of the three men, pushing Francis aside as if he were a piece of furniture.

“Please, please make yourselves comfortable! Captain Hawkins shall be with you directly!”

The first man, a balding, heavyset man nearing fifty, wore a beige slashed doublet adorned with gilt buttons. His downturned mouth and hooded eyes gave him the look of a man perpetually unimpressed by the world. He lowered himself onto the bench with a groan.

The second man, younger and leaner, settled beside him with deliberate elegance, crossing one leg to reveal a glinting pearlescent buckle on his shoe.

The third man remained standing, his gaze wandering the room.

Francis shifted from foot to foot.

“Don’t just stand there, you dolt!” Wilkinson hissed. “Goblets and a flagon of sack! Smartly now.”

Francis bowed in obedience before hurrying away.

He returned carrying a tray of silver goblets, a flagon of sack, and a plate of sweetmeats. When he entered the room, John Hawkins and his older brother were in the chairs opposite the seated guests, making small talk.

Francis placed the tray onto a sideboard and filled the goblets. Forcing an awkward smile, he circled the room, offering wine and sweetmeats.

The portly man took the goblet, continuing his conversation with John as if Francis wasn’t there.

When he finished serving the wine, Francis retreated to a corner, the silver flagon in his hand.

Wilkinson perched on a stool in the far corner of the room, shuffling papers as he prepared to take notes of the conversation.

The small talk ceased as Captain William Hawkins strode into the room and took his place behind his desk.

“So, gentlemen,” he began. “Wilkinson tells me you wish to discuss the upcoming charter? All provisioning is complete and the Lionheart sets sail in two days. Tomorrow we load your freight.”

The portly man dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Our buyer…” He cleared his throat, then swallowed all the wine in his goblet in one gulp. “…is concerned about the recently increased belligerence of the French privateers. His last shipment, sent from London, was taken, and he wants us to split this shipment in half to reduce risk.”

Francis moved to refill his goblet, careful not to draw Hawkins’s attention.

Hawkins cut the merchant off. “And you want—?”

“—to renegotiate our agreement.” The fat man reddened. “Our costs are increasing.”

Francis saw a faint, condescending smile appear in the corner of Hawkins’s mouth, as if Hawkins already knew that.

“Gentlemen, if you wish to halve the freight we are carrying, that is fine with us. However, we won’t entertain cost changes.” He paused, looking straight at the fat man. “The Lionheart is more than capable of defending herself from any miscreant.”

Francis’s eyes opened wide.

“But you would have more freedom to take on other freight—”

Hawkins raised his hand, cutting him off.

“Given how soon you need a ship, your greater concern is the availability of other ships. We keep two ready for sea in this port. There is no other ship in the harbor today that is ready for sea, and none that could journey that far.”

Nobody broke the silence, and the fat man dabbed beads of sweat from his forehead.

“Shall we discuss provisioning one of our other ships? Or will you warehouse your goods until a suitable ship arrives? We stand ready to help you, of course.”

The tight smile had not left Hawkins’s mouth.

God would provide. Hawkins knew it, thought Francis.

“Captain Hawkins—!” began the fat man.

Hawkins raised an eyebrow. “A few days ago, you demanded a ship ready to set sail—knowing that we are the only shipper that keeps ships ready for sea. Now that we have one ready, you wish to renegotiate our agreement?”

“Keeping a ship at the ready carries a cost, gentlemen,” said John Hawkins, “whether she is packed solid or sails in ballast.”

The elegant companion bent his head towards the irritated man and whispered.

Francis moved through the room to refill the empty goblets. As he returned to his corner, he set the flagon on the edge of the tray, almost tipping it over. The clatter drew every eye in the room, including the irritated man’s condescending stare.

Francis flushed.

“Drake! Are you still here? Have you nothing to tend to?” barked Wilkinson.

Read the next scene from the historical fiction novel Sic Parvis Magna: “Life at Plymouth” .

Did you miss the start? Read the opening scene, Going on Delivery or the overview of the opening two chapters .

Read my comments about who is real in Sic Parvis Magna .